


shout out to the artist who took his heart and his soul and lost them both in the process

by knighthoodie (excelestial)



Category: Septiplier - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: :3, Artist!Mark, M/M, Septiplier AWAY!, and a special entrance for a certain... entity in the future, but no spoilers for now loves, mute!Mark, we got some great aus bb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelestial/pseuds/knighthoodie
Summary: Mark Fischbach was known in his apartment complex as a man of few words- none, as a matter of fact. In his twenty-eight years of life, not a single word had ever left his lips and it wasn't likely at all that any every would. But Mark found that a picture might not be really worth a thousand words; however, it could provide enough for conversation. He didn't live lavishly, there was really nothing in his cramped home aside from basic necessities and a typhoon of work materials- he made enough through his paintings to keep him housed and fed and that was enough for Mark. His life was quiet and he didn't intend to change that anytime soon. Until Jack moved in and had no issues making some noise.or, alternatively, a lonely mute finds a voice through artistry and the thin walls of his apartment while he dotes on the beauty that just moved in next door- only to find that maybe beauty is simply just skin-deep, or maybe it's not.





	1. the monotony and the rising tide is under my skin, is crawling inside [one]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how cliché, Mark thinks, to have begun to fall for the man who only just moved in

It wasn't unusual for there to be some ruckus in the hallway- the couple three doors down the hall has three kids that Mark is forever amazed could live peacefully in these squat apartments. He's been a surrogate for embarrassment when he's heard the recently graduated from college guy at the very end come home with a different girl each week, appallingly eager to get back to his room with what has to be the least consideration ever. Hell, Mark knows he's at fault too- he's ashamed to say how many art supplies he's dropped down the stairs because of his pride and stubbornness. 

However, it is rather peculiar for there to be the overburdened shuffling of feet that are almost indistinguishable from one another. As if they're carrying things. Carrying things like couches and beds and tables and other such materials that one would desire when moving into a new home. There was no news of an incoming tenant- the last one, the one who lived in the room beside Mark's, got evicted for drug possession. But that doesn't stop the piquing interest of spying a new face in what has easily become a monster of faceless names. 

Inside the quaint apartment, Mark turns his gaze from the painstakingly maintained glass doors that would welcome him to the overhanging porch, should he ever feel a desire to open them. A bottle with a rag thrown over it sits in the corner. Another rag, one stained with more colours than the average person would think existed, rests over Mark's thigh and an annoyed grunt leaves his mouth as he accidentally sets his hand in the wet paint. Grimacing, a paintbrush barely disturbs the water it's set in while Mark shuffles silently to the kitchen sink. If only he took as much care of his dishes as he did his supplies- a graveyard of the past week's meals haunt Mark; unfortunately, he's not too scared yet and there are plenty more to use. 

To his left, through these wafer-thin walls, the steady stampede of feet has subsided for the moment- only the hushed voices of an exchange could be discerned. And soon enough, that too was gone. Despite his better nature- sticking his nose in other people's business tends to not end well for Mark- he finds a morbid interest to discover the origin of what could be his new neighbor. Curiosity overcomes Mark and he is quick to pull himself to the little peephole on his door, peering inquisitively through. 

A man looms just outside Mark's doorway, shoulder pressed to the small patch of wall between his room and the next. His back is to Mark and there's a lump in his throat as Mark spies the lithe cords of muscles slithering under the thin shirt material while the man idles, trying to get comfortable. There's a shock of electric green in his hair and despite thinking  _toxic,_ Mark has an urge to touch it, run his fingers through it until he reaches the roots. The man is thin but in a way that has Mark mesmerized, entranced like a moth being carried to an immortal flame. Everything about the man oozed a distant confidence, something ethereal and just unfathomable to Mark, and it made his stomach twist into knots as he finds his hand suddenly closing the door behind him as he steps into the hall. In the back of Mark's head, a voice muses that the veil of dying light that falls over that man's figure makes him appear angelic but another is quick to object that books are never to be judged by their covers. Nights in darkened bars and too many drinks in his stomach while surrounded by unimaginably judgemental people who don't appreciate the divinity of silence taught him that lesson.

The door clicks shut and the man's head perks up, twisting around and there's a flash of pure nothingness in the eyes that greet him only to immediately soften as he relaxes once more. A sly, breathy chuckle is on his lips and Mark fondly thinks of the doves that had nested on his balcony a few years back. Mark gives a loose smile, trying to come off as inviting but fearing that it shows up as more awkward than anything. His entire being, at least to Mark, was the embodiment of a centerfold- demeanor bleeding sex and inviting eyes that could swallow you whole if stared into for too long, a trap that Mark had fallen into one too many times. But suddenly he wonders how long until the inevitable crash. Mark's palms are sweaty as he squeezes them shut. 

"Hello." A moment's silence then the man's head is cocked to the side, uncertainty blossoming on his face. Clearing his throat, he tries again, this time accompanying his words with his hand as it waves in front of Mark's flushing face. "Hello? Anyone home? Geez."

Anger begins to furrow the man's brow as he is still greeted by silence; clearly, there's little registering about the situation at hand even with Mark's openly gaping mouth. It slowly burns into annoyance as the man crosses his arms over his chest, huffing indignantly before going to turn back around. Mark feels his heart drop as the man begins to twist away, lunging forward to tap his fingers along the subtle ridge of the man's shoulder, suppressing a delighted shiver when his touch skips along the oddly cool skin under his shirt collar. The flesh was smooth and Mark couldn't tell if it was suddenly night out or if he truly was seeing stars, enraptured by the feeling of otherworldly skin against his own. Never before has Mark been so compelled by another person but this man, his potentially new neighbor, was positively magnetic and Mark was unwilling to fight the pull. The man's eyebrow was crooked in amusement but the mild irritation was still clear as he gazes at Mark with chilling oceans that promise the drag Mark into their depths. Mark struggles to keep the heat from rising to his cheeks.

Mark points at his throat before setting his finger to his lips, a somber smile tugging listlessly at the thin corners of his lips. For a moment, the man's expression remains blank until it lights up and immediately darkens once again, face turned to the floor. Bitterness laces his words as the man speaks up, though it's very evident the sentiment is not directed towards Mark himself, "Shit, man. I'm sorry, I should've- Fuckin' hell. I didn't know." A shaky breath and Mark feels a shiver down his spine as the man looks up, hollow eyes with vibrantly colored ivy winding around them peer up at Mark. It was wholly unnatural, inhuman but somehow it just seemed right as the man lowers his voice to a dulcet timbre. "Jack, my name's Jack. Maybe we can... meet..." an uncomfortable pause before picking back up with an eerily calm coo, "we can introduce ourselves better, once I actually get the landlord here."

When Mark returns to his living room just moments later in awe, he thinks that the light hits the water glass he set beside his canvas makes the most breathtaking shade of blue.


	2. i go home and i lock my door (i can hear the sirens) [two]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how cliché, Mark thinks, to have such a colorful world yet live with barren walls

Mark could lie and say the image of Jack left his head as soon as he closed his apartment door behind me. Mark could lie and say that he wasn't fixated on anchoring himself in the deep, consuming waves of his chilling eyes. Mark could lie and say he wasn't compelled to find asylum within the walls of Jack's ribcage. Mark could lie and say there are greener pastures on the other side of the fence, but he knows now that nothing is more soothing than the fields spilling off of Jack's roots. Mark could lie and say nothing at all because Jack is the only thought on the tip of his tongue and Mark yearns to finally speak for the first time. Down his long back, water beads off of Mark's warmed skin as he steps out of the shower. The soft gurgling of the drain follows Mark while he ties the fraying towel around his carved waist. Outside of the bathroom, the subtle tones of classical music fill the emptiness of his home in ways words never could.

The mirror, though fogged, left little to the imagination as Mark trudges to his sink. In no way would Mark ever discount himself- he knew his body was appealing, many potential lovers over drunken evenings have told him enough. And he was not one to loathe how he looked, though he certainly would never come off as cocky or self-obsessed either. Mark had refined tasted but they were tastes that were never done being refined, his palette constantly under construction. Water drips off of his hair that is succumbing to the weight of his shower, the droplet happily landing on the decidedly artistically unkempt scruff of his facial hair. Ruggedly handsome is what one reporter described him as in their exposé about him, an overnight sensation in what was once thought to be a dying craft. Perhaps Mark would willing concede to such a remark if he didn't remember how that very reporter immediately requested a night out full of alcohol and bad decisions. 

Pushing open the bathroom door closest to his room, he comes face to face with a blank wall that brings a frothy uneasy feeling in his stomach. To his immediate left, a small closet stands with its doors open and a washer and dryer set on display. Mark takes an immediate right outside the bathroom and quickly arrives into the marvelous, vibrant disaster that is his living room which distinctly lacks a sense of living. Light spills through the sliding doors leading to an overhanging patio. Beyond the edge of surprisingly well-maintained railings, Mark can see the swaying foliage of trees just a few feet out of reach. Mark pulls his towel tighter to his waist, suddenly nervous about his nakedness. He quickly ducks out of view of the window and into his room. 

It'd be a stretch, Mark knew, but something in his heart hungered for Jack to make good on his word. To show up after the homely but terse owner had checked him off. So he opted for something a tad bit nicer than his usual after-shower pajamas. Something like slacks and a dress shirt, one properly pressed like his mother- bless his mother's sweet heart- taught him. Struggling to knot the tie, a fleeting thought of whether he was dressing up too much passed but it is quelled as quickly as Mark is able to tighten the tie around his neck. He does, after all, have a persona to maintain and doesn't want to perpetuate that messy painter life he knows shadows him. And it wouldn't kill him to clean himself up every now and then- especially if there might be an _incentive_ to doing so. 

As Mark leaves his bedroom, he is all too oblivious to the soft and pitchy sounds of thumps and material being drug along the opposite side of the mirror wall. A more insightful soul would say it sounds a bit too heavy to be a bed or even a dresser, almost like it's the weight of claws on a throat but it would be a bit ridiculous to compare a vacant wall to human anatomy, wouldn't it? 

Mark could lie and say he wasn't surprised when three hours later there was a knock his door- the first in nearly a year that wasn't a worried relative or whatever poor soul got stuck delivering Mark's takeout. Mark could lie and say his heart didn't rattle against porcelain ribs when he heard that voice, that heavenly voice- Mark realized Jack had a slight Irish accent, curling around his words like a hand around a throat and it excited Mark more than it should have. Mark could lie and say his hands weren't shaking as he stood up and nearly toppled over his easel in his rush to get to the door without causing too much commotion. Mark could lie and say he's never believed in a higher power but, _fuck_ , before him stood an angel in flesh and bone.

Mark _could_ lie but he's more worried about the flush in his cheeks than any words in his head.


	3. you've got the nerve to count your sins (but not your blessings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how cliché, Mark thinks, to have so much to say but no way to say it

Mark immediately flushes, feeling drastically overdressed as he gazes upon the Sunday afternoon outfit that Jack has thrown on. A pair of sweatpants is slung off of Jack's hips and Mark wants to hate how the drawstring had been knotted into a bow, carefully done with a pinch of disinterest. The shirt is black, almost otherworldly against the snowy paleness of Jack's skin, with some peculiar design on it, Mark imagines it is some pop culture reference that he isn't caught up on. Jack's chest isn't overly broad, just defined enough to make Mark's heart patter just a few beats faster. Here Mark is in some of his Sunday best while Jack looks as if though he may be ready to just hop into bed. Mark suddenly hopes Jack doesn't see how his cheeks burn. 

Quickly Mark slides aside, motioning for Jack to step inside. With a cool ease, Jack slips inside a quiet smile on his face. "I apologize. I, uh," a nervous chuckle dances on Jack's lips, rubbing the back of his neck, "I don't know any sign language." Mark gives a gentle smile- he's not surprised. Most of his neighbors didn't even know how to ask how he's doing- if he's even okay- when they first met Mark- now they can at least ask him if something is wrong and know if someone's in his apartment. Mark was always intrigued by progress. 

Beckoning Jack forth, Mark shows the grandiose blandness of his home off with a quiet that doesn’t seem to bother Jack as much as it does Mark himself. In all honesty, it would seem Jack has a security found in the emptiness of his home. Ever the rational host, Mark holds his hand out to bring Jack to a halt. The coolness of Jack’s skin radiates through the thin fabric of the shirt, making Mark’s fingers tingle at the sensation. Mark’s breath catches in his throat, a frog threatening to make him croak, but he swallows as he points to the kitchen beside them. He hopes that his cheeks aren’t alight as Jack quizzically peers at him, watching Mark pretend to drink from a glass in order to get his point across.

"A drink? Well, if you're offering. What you got? Water? Soda?" Mark points at the top of the fridge. A long-necked bottle with a black label is perched on the edge. Grotesque is almost how Mark would describe the grin that cracks across Jack's lips, full of teeth and hunger and  _want_. "Vodka? I would never have pegged you for that kind of guy." The eagerness on Jack’s face is intangible, monstrous and fresh when he rushes past Mark to press against the cool surface of the refrigerator. 

Mark tries not to stare as Jack glides effortlessly to the fridge- Mark isn't able to reach up there himself and Jack is just barely able too. It's hard to breathe as Jack's sweatpants dip just a bit too low to be considered sane; Mark tells himself that he's not weird for being fascinated by the sharp curve of Jack's hipbone. A wave of heat flashes over Mark's body as he forces himself to focus on pulling down a pair of glasses. 

Not a single soul in this universe, or any other for that matter, could blame Mark for ogling as Jack casually tears off the foil wrapper of the long-necked bottle with his teeth. Jack's eyes burn hot as he smiles cattily at Mark, motioning for the glasses, of which Mark passes him one. Mark gulps hotly while watching Jack fill the glass to the brim. When Jack curls his fingers, asking for Mark's, Mark shakes his head feverishly. He hasn't had a drink for years- aside from one itty bitty shot to celebrate his brother's engagement. He really only had alcohol in his house for the rare emergency of guests appearing unannounced at his house. And Mark can tell you that he has had very, _very_ few guests in his home. 

Glasses clinking on the countertops, Mark tries not to be too obvious in his staring as Jack shrugs sheepishly before tipping back his head with the bottle pressed to his lips. Mark almost envies the coldness of the bottle, being so intimate with his guest despite having not even spoken a word. Then again, neither has Mark. With the shyness of a schoolgirl, Mark runs his fingertips along the length of Jack's forearm- he attempts to rein in the spark of warmth that fills him as he touches the other's flesh, the hardened sinew that practically melts under his touch. Mark had merely wanted to acquire Jack's attention but in the process lost his own, captivated by the grotesquely beautiful form in front of him- like a moth he became drawn to Jack, and he just knew he was going to get engulfed in the flames. Jack seemed to understand what Mark was trying to do and smiled, a smile full of teeth and wonder and pure knowing, allowing himself to be guided into the living room area.

"So, I took the liberty," Jack starts suddenly as he sits down on the end of Mark's only furniture untouched by his livelihood, a quiet snicker in his throat as he begins fishing into sweatpants pocket. He withdraws a notepad and a pen. Brandishing them, he presents them to Mark, offering them up with simplicity slicking his words like a sweet film, "I figured if I can't understand how you speak, perhaps I should learn from written word first." Cautiously, Mark accepts the pad and suppresses a shiver when his fingers draw across Jack's. "I'd like to get to know you, if that's okay," his smile is positively engrossing like he's come to an epiphany or face-to-face with some long forgotten obsession. Mark nods but it feels like an out of body experience. "So, your name? What is it?"

For having signed his name onto so many portraits, so many sceneries, so many abstractions from deep in his mind, Mark forgets how to write it for a moment, lost in the deep crests of Jack's eyes- so intently watching him, waiting as patiently as a mother would for her child's first steps. He presents the pad to Jack, mildly ashamed of his scrawling signature.

"So, Mark, is it?" Wonderment soaks Jack's words in a way that has Mark wistfully remembering the whimsy and carefree moments of childhood. A moment of silence followed by Jack taking a bone-chillingly deep swallow of vodka. "Like the Mark Fischbach that has his works in the Museum of Modern Art in New York and other renowned art museums? That Mark?"

Mark's face ignites and he's afraid of burning Jack- not many people know that about him. Or, at least, know that it's his work. But enough people know that he shouldn't be this estranged by being called out- but just hearing his name fall from this man's lips in such high praise, like his work is sublime by nature, it makes Mark's throat tighten like a vice. It's an angel crooning from it's cloud high above the travesty of the world about perfection- surreal. In the few art showings that Mark has attended, not a single one had made his hand tremble like it does now; Mark wonders if maybe he should rethink his views on alcohol consumption.

"Don't worry," Jack muses aloud, a soft chuckle filling his chest. "I'm just a fan of beautiful things. You and your works leave me paralyzed in thought and awe, especially your first one... what was that one called...?" Jack trails off and snorts when Mark scribbles something else on the paper to show Jack. "No, no. Not _Evaporated_ _Capillaries_. The one before that, one of the scenes underwater... what was it, Distress? No, that's not it. Distance? No, not that either.  _Distilled in Consciousness_! That's the one!"

Mark blinks, confused. He wasn't even professionally acclaimed when he made that piece, barely out of art school when he made it. It was a ludicrous piece. One made under the influence of confusion and anger, a boiling rage let free upon a canvas undeserving of the emotional abuse it would be made to endure. It was made with thick paints that had no right to cling to Mark's name, to have such a luxury attached to them when his pieces now are far more sophisticated and articulated. It had shapes undefined and jagged, like the lens he was seeing through was submerged and Mark remembers that maybe, maybe he was drowning and those pieces made sense at the moment. Maybe Jack truly likes the unkempt emotions and dysphoric ideas imbued in the piece and maybe he likes the beauty of uncertainty. Because Mark likes the beauty behind the uncertainty of Jack.

"You'd think I would remember the name of the pieces I keep in my house, huh?" Jack remarks, jokingly smacking himself on the head. Embarrassed, Mark starts to write shakily but is cut off by Jack laughing quietly. "I probably sound so creepy, don't I? Talking about you in your own house. Like I know you. Enough of that, let's talk about something else, yeah? What do you do for fun, aside from paint?" 

Jack waits a moment, maintaining an awkward eye contact before Mark begins to scribble once more. It takes more out of Mark than he'd like to admit for him not to allow himself to be distracted by the calming allure of Jack's dulcet voice. 

"I like to go exploring myself," starts Jack, allowing his gaze to brazenly sweep around the barren walls that surround him. "I like to surround myself with unfamiliarity, force myself to be uncomfortable." There's a disturbing emptiness as Mark turns the pad to Jack, confusion bright on his face. Jack takes the paper easily before continuing, directly overlooking it as he jerks his head to the walls. "You do the same, don't you? Keep yourself away from the worlds you create, like an author from their characters. Immersion is such a fragile thing, we find stability and normality in things that are not our true selves. So you like to watch people in their natural habitat?" 

Mark had simply written _watch the park_ but he supposes that's not too far off.


End file.
